


come out and haunt me

by jontinf



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who & Related Fandoms, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: F/M, Ficlet, Hurt/Comfort, Kissing, Mild Sexual Content, Missing Scene, Porn with Feelings, Post-Episode: s09e08 The Zygon Inversion, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-15
Updated: 2018-02-15
Packaged: 2019-03-18 20:39:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,314
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13689408
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jontinf/pseuds/jontinf
Summary: Twelve and Clara make out after The Zygon Inversion.





	come out and haunt me

“I’ll be the judge of time.”

The Doctor walks around Clara, pulls a final lever, and the TARDIS takes off. He gives her a smile, tentative, almost apologetic, like delivering bad news.

She leans against the console and watches him climb up the stairs. A flush has taken hold in her cheeks, an easy, faint smile of her own shading her deep red lipstick.

He has left it up to her on where they go next. Adventure, reprieve, some combination of both.

She chooses to let the ship thrum on autopilot and follows him up the stairs, shrugging her coat off her shoulders and onto the floor.

The Doctor lingers near the stairway and bears his weight against the shelves alongside the wall of the second floor. He studies the spines of books and pokes a finger in the slot meant for one that he’s lost.

“Hello.” Clara speaks with quiet affection, as if they haven’t spoken in ages. “You stupid old man.”

He won’t look at her, pretends to be distracted. “What is it?”

“Look at me,” she says.

His gaze flits in her direction. He has trouble keeping it steady. “Yeah, okay.”

“No, look at me.”

The Doctor meets Clara’s eye. “Looking.”

He tries to hold his breath, a way to cope, to not give himself away. His chest teems with a puzzling cocktail of melancholy and euphoria and immense, supernatural warmth. It feels like madness. It feels dangerous.

She breaks into a grin.

Her hand hovers near his face, an attempt to smother a confused frown before it reaches the corners of his mouth.

“Is this you trying to flirt?” he asks.

Clara finally touches his skin. She’s always been struck by how soft his skin is, its user-friendliness, despite his best efforts. “I’m making a point.”

“Which is?" 

She contemplates which article of clothing she’d like to remove first. “I’m not dead,” she says.

The Doctor sighs, not quite favourable of her nonchalance about the whole thing.

“No. You’re not.” He figures she’s expecting him to get over himself, or something. Move on. What they do.

In truth, she intends to continue the conversation they just started, conveying that she is very much alive, unfinished, eager to live some more. Even if the odds were against living, even though there were others who didn’t make it.

And, well, accordingly… she’d like to immediately shag him into a stupor. 

She manoeuvres herself so that her back leans against the bookshelves. Her fingers curl around the lapels of his thick coat, and she pulls him close enough to feel his hearts beating.

The Doctor shuts his eyes and rests his forehead against Clara’s.

This is not going to be the most comfortable experience, she realises.

“Bonnie has a crush on you."

“Zygella?” The Doctor huffs. “Doubtful.”

“No, no. There was winking.”

He braces a hand on a shelf and pushes his body against hers.

“That was you, actually.” His other hand slips beneath her blouse, and he thumbs the bare skin at her hip, finding the embossed remanence of a scar. This one feels new since the last time they did this, like it might have happened on a day off.

Clara plays with the wisps of long hair that have begun to curl at the ends, admiring what little she can see in the darkness. 

“She liked imagining you snogging zygons... _actually_.” She looks off to the side and feigns confusion. “Or maybe that was me too.”

She bites her lip when seeing his reaction of genuinely disgusted confusion. “A decidedly unsexy image, either way,” she concludes, neglecting to tell him that the zygon would have her face in her case. She couldn’t speak for Bonnie.

“I thought you were flirting,” he says. 

In response, she moves a hand to his trousers and places it nimbly over his cock.

This is a game of who will be the first to give in. She’s very close to losing her nerve, even closer to not caring if she does. 

“127 missed calls,” she says, reveling in how he catches his breath. “Explain yourself.”

“That was Doctor Disco,” he says. “And—”

She looks up expectantly. “And?”

He leans down to kiss her mouth: aggressive, greedy, deliberatively slow.

She wins.

“Good explanation,” she replies, dazed, fisting the line of his coat like reins, her shoe knocking against his.

Two of his fingers sweep against her brow, moving hair out of the way, as though spreading paint on an easel. He spots a metallic glint in her hair and grazes it to find that an earring has come loose. It’s a miracle she hadn’t lost it earlier.

“Oh,” she says, “that’s—”

He pinches the earring between his fingers and inspects it curiously. “Let me,” he says.

As gently as possible, he reinserts the earring into her piercing and then fixates on it, as if admiring a great piece of handiwork. She feels him linger near her face, the warmth of his mouth against her ear. 

Clara digs the back of her head against a shelf when he sinks down to kiss her earlobe. He begins to suck experimentally at the flesh, his tongue curling around the looping gold stem of the earring. She groans softly when his lips move on to nuzzle the skin behind her ear, kissing her there languorously, again and again and again.

Carefully, she traces the back of her fingers over his erection, and he replies with a dull hum against the crook of her neck. His chest swells, palms press flat against the spines of his books, breathing barbed like electricity. She keeps her touch light and tentative, the edge of her fingernail on the fabric of his trousers, her hovering over his fly, at his belt, the inside of his thigh.

It’s a struggle for either to complete a thought, in a way sentient beings ought to, minds too hazy, too frenetic with need.

“Yes?” she asks. 

“Yes,” he says, voice rough, almost a choke, and she doesn’t waste a moment before clumsily tugging his coat and hoodie down his arms.

She admires the line of his body, and he is once again unable to meet her eye, still not fully reconciling being desired.

“Hey,” she beckons gently, lifting his chin.

He responds as though this were a challenge and cups her face with both hands, offers her a quick kiss and then reopens his eyes to watch her with a too-serious expression. She would laugh at him if he didn’t look so beautiful right then, resolve in his blue eyes, the way his brows and lashes shade his mouth.

Her fingers fumble to unfasten his belt and the buttons of his trousers, and his mouth forms an inaudible  _ah_  when she takes him in her hand and begins stroking. Her forehead pushes against his collarbone, and she feels his shoulders slump, as if his bones could detach at her touch. She moans with him, a stuttering sound low in her throat, his response deepening her own arousal.

“Longest month of your life, was it?” she asks, a soft mumble.

“Who told you that?” 

“Someone apparently old enough to be my messiah.” 

“That’s pretty old.” He smiles, finally, at his own expense, at theirs. “You should know better.” 

“So should you,” she replies.

His lips press a kiss just above her brow, then her mouth again. “Yeah. Someday.” 

“Not today,” she says, out of breath, her hand still moving between them.

She notices that he’s lost weight. She didn’t know Time Lords did that. His face a bit gaunter than before. More white in his hair. Enough to make her worry. She burrows her cheek even more into his body. 

If she could tell him she loved him, she’d mean it unconditionally.

He draws her back to him with a kiss on the pulse of her wrist. “Not just yet.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to the marvelous Veradune for the feedback! <3


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